Timing
by feldman
"This is your playground."
He pauses with their son upraised, the silence broken only by a deliberative grunt from the baby. John blinks, then presses his lips together. There's a squishing noise and stern grumbles from little D'Argo, as his feet lash out and his fists wave heroically.
John seems reluctant to lower the child, to surrender the sanctity of the moment. Aeryn waits patiently, aware that the moment is as ruined as the cloth swaddling the child's eema. With a last explosive vent the boy finishes, and John tucks him carefully against his chest with a sigh.
Aeryn can no longer restrain herself.
"He's got your sense of timing."